


10.19

by bonebo



Series: Kinktober '16 [19]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dom/sub, Fisting, M/M, Orgasm Control, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 10:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8441326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: They are built, first and foremost, to serve.kinktober 19 - prostitution





	

They are made--first and foremost--to serve. 

All sleek, smooth plates and sharp angles, curves that appeal to the human eye, metal buffed to a soft shine; their frames are stunningly beautiful but they are just toys, beautiful toys, machines built to serve a singular purpose. Lines of code in their heads keep them docile and obedient, eager to please--dropping fluidly to their knees with a simple command, opening mouths and ports and hands to receive, to please, to obey. 

The omnics are made to serve, built with coding that keeps them hungry; and the clients are happy to pay, to enjoy the services of a well-trained machine.

But sometimes the clients are not enough.

Zenyatta is young. His code is fresh and new and easily manipulated, and Mondatta knows it. Their masters do as well, because when Zenyatta finally staggers into their quarters long after his shift is over it’s with steam in his wake, a high-pitched and needy whirring noise to his mechanics that immediately has Mondatta’s attention. He sits up on his berth and watches, transfixed, as Zenyatta’s hips sway; the younger omnic’s knees suddenly buckle, sending him to the floor. Before Mondatta can get to his feet, Zenyatta’s rolling with the change, crawling on hands and knees toward Mondatta’s bunk. His movements are sleek and smooth, like he’s entirely in control of himself; but Mondatta knows. He knows that his brother is no more in control of his urges than he himself is--no stronger against the pull of their coding and just as weak to the demands it makes of their bodies. Thick white strands of wetness gleam between Zenyatta’s thighs, and staring at it brings something akin to jealousy welling inside his chest, clawing up his throat. He forces the feeling away.

“Zenyatta.” The teal lights flash once, then flicker brighter, as Zenyatta continues his procession toward the older omnic. Mondatta can’t make himself look away. “....Zen. What are you doing?”

“Need you,” is Zenyatta’s reply, voice glitched and strained and desperate; he reaches Mondatta’s bunk and looks up at him, soft clouds of white puffing from his vents and his cooling fans on high. “Mondatta...brother. Please…”

Mondatta used to be ashamed of himself--can remember times where he turned Zenyatta away when he was like this, made him sit by himself cold and needy and left him to whimper and cry in his lonely bunk. He’d thought he was doing good, back then.

He isn’t so sure anymore of what is wrong or right, in regards to this. All he knows is that it keeps Zenyatta from crying.

So he beckons the smaller omnic up; guides him onto the bunk and shuffles over to make room, lets them lay together, close enough so their foreheads touch. Zenyatta’s frame heaves with the desperate breaths his programing forces him to take, the attempts to cool himself. Mondatta can’t help but touch.

His fingers slide over the narrow chestplate, down across Zenyatta’s side, feeling the tiny jumps and jerks of his body, the way the sensitive metal reacts to a touch far softer than what it’s used to. The brothel took their modesty panels years ago and so there is no resistance when Mondatta’s hand dives lower, sliding between pliant thighs to cup possessively over the warm, supple hole between Zenyatta’s legs, still fucked open and sloppy with fluid.

“Zenyatta,” Mondatta chastises, voice soft and fond; hopelessly affectionate, even in this. “You’re filthy down here, little thing. Did you not clean yourself up after your last client?”

Zenyatta shakes his head--his thighs clamp together around Mondatta’s wrist, as if afraid his touch will leave. 

“...couldn’t. Had to...find you, needed you, brother…”

“Oh, Zen.” He sighs, nuzzling softly against Zenyatta’s forehead as his fingers move; shift from cupping to stroking, just a single digit between the rubbery black folds, parting them easily and marvelling at the slickness. Later--when Zenyatta is tucked once more into bed and the walls loom silently over them, when the urges fade into the background again--he’ll be angry. At himself for his weakness, at the clients for their cruelty, at Zenyatta for his tendencies, even--but for now he is more than happy to just coax the weak noises from Zenyatta’s mouth, make his hips arch into his touch, listen to his cooling fans whirr and spin. 

“What am I going to do with you?”

“Fuck me.” Zenyatta’s head lolls, moving in tandem with his pelvis, matching the soft grinds of his hips against Mondatta’s hand. “Please--oh, Maker, brother. Please, please fuck me, I need it--”

Forcing himself to say no is the hardest thing Mondatta’s done in his life. It seems to go against his very coding--his very being--to deny the smaller omnic anything. Especially like this--all curled up and nestled close, needy and hot; but the stretched-out hole and seeing his fingers coated in Zenyatta’s oily blood is enough to keep him determined. He wants to tell Zenyatta it’s for his own good.

“You’re too sloppy,” is what he says instead, and listens to the way Zenyatta keens like he’s dying. So pathetic, desperate; it’s all but impossible to deny his brother anything, but Mondatta pushes himself on; drunk on the power he has over the other, smaller frame. “Too wrecked for me. I won’t even feel you, you’re so loose. Let me do this instead.”

And his roaming fingers plunge in, three at a time, and Zenyatta’s shrill cry is worth the agony of denying himself. Mondatta is only mildly surprised to discover that he’s not entirely wrong--Zenyatta is fucked loose, his inner walls let his fingers slip and slide easily in and out, working the well-used hole open even further and making him wail. In agony or in ecstasy--it’s hard to tell at this point, and harder still for Mondatta to find it in himself to care. He glances down to the soft gape of Zenyatta’s dark hole, the way the lax walls try to grip his fingers, and decides this isn’t enough.

Zenyatta can take more. Needs to take more. 

Will take more.

Mondatta pulls his fingers free--hushes Zenyatta’s pitiful whine with a light slap to the softly-glowing nub of his clit, shivers at his broken keen--and folds his digits in neatly, pointing them into a smooth cone. He returns them again to Zenyatta’s hole, and nudges against him experimentally, shifting his free arm to curl the smaller omnic closer.

“Let’s see if you feel this.”

Mondatta slides his hand in, insistent and unyielding. Zenyatta’s response is immediate and electric--he arches and throws his head back, cries out into the darkness of the room, his feet shifting restlessly on the bed.

“Stop it. You can take it.” Mondatta huffs the words out and hopes they carry enough conviction for Zenyatta to believe them, too. He reaches the fattest part of his hand and stares at Zenyatta’s hole as he forces it in, making the soft black rubber stretch and then stretch further, yield and accept, until Zenyatta howls and his hole closes back around the narrow metal of Mondatta’s wrist.

“That’s it...good boy.” Static eats at his voice but he fights to keep it steady, to keep in control. He pulls Zenyatta closer and shifts his hand, feeling the slick give of the other omnic’s insides around him, squeezing in wet, fluttery little motions that make his own fans click on. He can’t tell if Zenyatta is trying to fight the hand inside his guts or if he’s trying to suck it deeper, but it doesn’t matter. Ultimately, Mondatta will decide how much Zenyatta is given; will decide what his brother can take.

He curls his fingers into a fist, just to hear Zenyatta wail; his hand starts to rock back and forth, small motions that stretch and just barely nudge Zenyatta’s throbbing clit, and Zenyatta screeches and clicks and keens like something broken, something wrecked. Mondatta takes pity on him, coos and murmurs to the smaller omnic to try to ease him, to relieve the ache in both their chests.

“You’re taking it so well,” Mondatta whispers, enraptured as he watches Zenyatta writhe and squirm on his hand, fuck himself deeper on what Mondatta has deigned to give him. “You’re going to cum for me, aren’t you, Zenny? Probably for the first time all night, poor thing…”

He knows how the clients are--knows how cruel they can be. Mondatta tells himself that what he’s doing is a mercy.

Zenyatta’s still nodding, bobbing his head in frantic motions, and Mondatta twists his hand inside the hot, slick clutch of his hole just to hear him scream. Zenyatta’s body seizes like he’s been electrocuted, his joints locking up and his head rolling back, mouth falling open on his shrill cry; Mondatta revels in it, watches enraptured as Zenyatta comes down from the high, and gives him all of two breaths to recover before he’s moving his hand again.

“That was one,” he says, over Zenyatta’s weak whimpers, the rustling of the bunk as he squirms. “Let’s see how many more you can give me.”


End file.
